Long Mile Home: Boston Under Attack, the City's Courageous Recovery, and the Epic Hunt for Justice by Scott Helman, Jenna Russell Page B
Authors: Scott Helman, Jenna Russell
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waiting for?” Krystle Campbell asked her with a smile.
“I’m waiting for a friend,” Bocaletti said, explaining that Natalie had crossed the thirty-kilometer mark a little while ago. “How about you?”
Krystle pointed to her friend Karen, standing nearby. “Her boyfriend just crossed the thirty-K, too,” she said.
Bocaletti’s friends then caught up with her. One of them had Bocaletti’s phone. Using the tracking system, she could see now that Natalie was nearing the finish. She went back up to Krystle to show her Natalie’s location on the phone. Krystle smiled.
“Oh, yours is coming any moment now,” she said.
“Yes, if my calculations are correct, any moment,” Bocaletti said.
It was about 2:45. A woman in front of both of them, who was right up against the barricade, took a phone call and walked away. That left open a prime spot in the front row, a perfect spot for viewing. Krystle had as much right to it as anyone. But she didn’t move forward. She smiled, shifted over, and let Bocaletti go up front.
• • •
H eather finally made it to Boylston Street. Crossing over from Fenway Park, she and her friends had gotten lost in the marathon street closures, just like last year, but they were having a good time, and the slight delay didn’t bother them. They walked up the sidewalk on the same side as Forum, approaching with the restaurant to their left. The door to the bar was open. A bouncer was checking IDs. Moving closer to the door, her friends in front of her, Heather peered into the bar. It didn’t look as crowded as she had expected. She didn’t see anyone she knew, not yet. In a minute, when they were inside, she would get a better look.
• • •
O n his own now,Tamerlan Tsarnaev continued walking eastbound toward the finish line. Dzhokhar moved a little farther east, too, then stopped on the sidewalk in front of Forum, a few feet behind eight-year-old Martin Richard. Lingzi Lu was nearby, too. He eased his heavy backpack to the ground, letting go of the straps. A block away, close to where Krystle Campbell was standing, Tamerlan did the same. As Tamerlan waited in the crowd outside Marathon Sports, something about him—a lone man in a black baseball hat and dark sunglasses—drew the attention of Jeff Bauman, a twenty-seven-year-old who was at the race to watch his girlfriend run. The man with the backpack wasn’t cheering or clapping for the runners; he seemed out of place, Bauman thought. For an instant, the two young men locked eyes. At 2:48, Dzhokhar called Tamerlan from a prepaid cell phone. They spoke for several seconds, then hung up. Each one then started moving down the sidewalk, leaving their packs on the ground behind them, their remote detonators close at hand. Tamerlan walked away from Jeff Bauman and Krystle Campbell and the other spectators standing near Marathon Sports. Dzhokhar walked away from Jane and Martin Richard and the rest of the children perched on the metal barrier, away from Heather Abbott and the others waiting outside Forum to get in. The brothers had made their commitment; there was no going back. The time was 2:49 P . M .
CHAPTER 5
2:50 P.M.
Agony on Boylston Street
C arlos Arredondo made the sign of the cross with one hand. “God protect us,” he said. Then the man in the cowboy hat ran across the street, toward the spot where a ball of white fire had just erupted. He began tearing down the fencing in his way. He could see people in a pile on the sidewalk, some of them missing legs. Arredondo knew trauma, more than any man should. He’d lost one son to combat in Iraq in 2004; he had been so distraught when the marine detail came to tell him the news that he lit himself on fire. Seven years later, his surviving son committed suicide. In the mayhem on Boylston Street, Arredondo dropped the American flag he’d been carrying, leaned over a gravely injured young man, and asked him his name. He could feel his sons’ presence
“I’m waiting for a friend,” Bocaletti said, explaining that Natalie had crossed the thirty-kilometer mark a little while ago. “How about you?”
Krystle pointed to her friend Karen, standing nearby. “Her boyfriend just crossed the thirty-K, too,” she said.
Bocaletti’s friends then caught up with her. One of them had Bocaletti’s phone. Using the tracking system, she could see now that Natalie was nearing the finish. She went back up to Krystle to show her Natalie’s location on the phone. Krystle smiled.
“Oh, yours is coming any moment now,” she said.
“Yes, if my calculations are correct, any moment,” Bocaletti said.
It was about 2:45. A woman in front of both of them, who was right up against the barricade, took a phone call and walked away. That left open a prime spot in the front row, a perfect spot for viewing. Krystle had as much right to it as anyone. But she didn’t move forward. She smiled, shifted over, and let Bocaletti go up front.
• • •
H eather finally made it to Boylston Street. Crossing over from Fenway Park, she and her friends had gotten lost in the marathon street closures, just like last year, but they were having a good time, and the slight delay didn’t bother them. They walked up the sidewalk on the same side as Forum, approaching with the restaurant to their left. The door to the bar was open. A bouncer was checking IDs. Moving closer to the door, her friends in front of her, Heather peered into the bar. It didn’t look as crowded as she had expected. She didn’t see anyone she knew, not yet. In a minute, when they were inside, she would get a better look.
• • •
O n his own now,Tamerlan Tsarnaev continued walking eastbound toward the finish line. Dzhokhar moved a little farther east, too, then stopped on the sidewalk in front of Forum, a few feet behind eight-year-old Martin Richard. Lingzi Lu was nearby, too. He eased his heavy backpack to the ground, letting go of the straps. A block away, close to where Krystle Campbell was standing, Tamerlan did the same. As Tamerlan waited in the crowd outside Marathon Sports, something about him—a lone man in a black baseball hat and dark sunglasses—drew the attention of Jeff Bauman, a twenty-seven-year-old who was at the race to watch his girlfriend run. The man with the backpack wasn’t cheering or clapping for the runners; he seemed out of place, Bauman thought. For an instant, the two young men locked eyes. At 2:48, Dzhokhar called Tamerlan from a prepaid cell phone. They spoke for several seconds, then hung up. Each one then started moving down the sidewalk, leaving their packs on the ground behind them, their remote detonators close at hand. Tamerlan walked away from Jeff Bauman and Krystle Campbell and the other spectators standing near Marathon Sports. Dzhokhar walked away from Jane and Martin Richard and the rest of the children perched on the metal barrier, away from Heather Abbott and the others waiting outside Forum to get in. The brothers had made their commitment; there was no going back. The time was 2:49 P . M .
CHAPTER 5
2:50 P.M.
Agony on Boylston Street
C arlos Arredondo made the sign of the cross with one hand. “God protect us,” he said. Then the man in the cowboy hat ran across the street, toward the spot where a ball of white fire had just erupted. He began tearing down the fencing in his way. He could see people in a pile on the sidewalk, some of them missing legs. Arredondo knew trauma, more than any man should. He’d lost one son to combat in Iraq in 2004; he had been so distraught when the marine detail came to tell him the news that he lit himself on fire. Seven years later, his surviving son committed suicide. In the mayhem on Boylston Street, Arredondo dropped the American flag he’d been carrying, leaned over a gravely injured young man, and asked him his name. He could feel his sons’ presence
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